


Shattered

by edgeworth_s



Category: Heavy Rain
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blood, Cigarettes, Depression, Drugs, Gen, Short One Shot, oh my god these tags are so depressing, triptocaine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 16:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20474291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgeworth_s/pseuds/edgeworth_s
Summary: Norman's struggles with triptocaine were never easy, to say the least.





	Shattered

Norman's fingers were sticky with sweat and blood as he reached out towards the desk. A sharp cough escaped his dry throat, followed shortly by a spasmatic inhale. His hand stroked the glass edge just to slip down and hit the hard ground.

He was on his knees, crawling, with blood smeared all over his pale face, in a soulless hotel room holding onto one sole thought.

'You can get through this'.

He let out a weak scream and put his gloved hand on the glass. He tried to pull himself up again, but in the middle of the action his muscles refused to cooperate and he fell back on the floor.

'For fuck's sake, pull yourself together!', Norman shouted, and his vision got blurry and wobbly when he hit the ground with the back of his head. 

He sat up and slapped himself; the glove's fabric so cold on his burning cheek. 

'Just... get up... you can't give up... I can't...'

His voice grew quieter with each slap. Eventually, he stopped and put his hands in his hair, resting his elbows on his knees. The only sound filling the room was his heavy panting, occasionally interrupted by a harsh cough or a loud sniff.

Norman shut his eyes and felt a hot liquid slowly streaming down his face. It found its way to the corner of his mouth; he tried to wipe it with his shirt's sleeve, but it only resulted in smearing the liquid onto his lips, tainting them red. He felt blood on his tongue, metallic and desperate.

He reluctantly opened his eyes, trying to get up for God knows which time, when a deep cough shook his whole body; a small vial filled with blue liquid rolled out of his trousers' pocket.  
Norman looked at the vial; his jaw was clenching and unclenching and his heart was pounding so loudly he couldn't hear his own breathing. He tried to, he was fucking trying so hard, but he couldn't pry his eyes off the container, as if the liquid sewed his gaze to itself with a shiny blue thread. He knew he was being delusional, but he could almost hear it... singing.

He slowly reached towards the vial with his shaking hand; his hand was wobbling in the air for a few seconds, nearly touching triptocaine, as if his brain has stopped working for a while, trying to resist the temptation.  
Norman didn't even realize that he grabbed the vial; it just suddenly materialized itself right under his nose, and all he had to do was to inhale. 

He closed his eyes and sniffed, letting the cold, stinging drug flood his nostrils.

He sighed loudly, as he felt the numbness leaving his limbs; his heart slowed down almost immediately, and the world slowly stopped turning around him. He moved heavily (oh, how wonderful it felt, being able to move his body!) towards this damn desk and leaned his back against its side; he was still too weak to stand up.

Norman looked at his clenched fist; an empty, tiny vial, resting between his fingers. He felt something streaming down his face again, but this time he knew it wasn't blood. He let out a quiet sob, followed by another sob, and he found himself crying loudly a few seconds later.

'I was... so fucking close!', he shouted weakly, his words almost unintelligible and his voice cracking. 'I had it... under... control... I did...', he whispered to himself, taking a cigarette out of his pocket. He lit it and inhaled the smoke; it was followed by a few sobs and a cough.  
Norman looked to his right; his bed with sheets hanging from the matress and stained by his blood. His hand went up to his nostrils; blood underneath them was already starting to dry up. He looked at his glasses, or rather what was left of them, scattered across the floor - he remembered trying to get off the bed, falling from it and breaking the glasses. A second pair this month. 

Norman reached behind his head and grabbed a bottle of vodka from the desk. He took a swig, winced, and took another one, his throat was stinging, but he silenced it with another cloud of smoke.  
He put the bottle aside and his eyes stopped at the mirror on a wardrobe standing across the room. 

A bunch of fancy clothes thrown on a body, with red smears all over its face and hair and shirt. Bloodshot green eyes, squinting in the streetlamp light, thin fingers holding a half emptied bottle, a small vial barely visible in the other hand.

Norman smirked, but what an ironic, full of pain and self-hatred smile it was.

He swung his arm and threw the vial against the mirror; he watched both things fall into thousand pieces, and so did his reflection, no longer existing.

Norman was jealous. He wished, he wished so fucking hard that he could stop existing as well.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this one half-asleep in a car at 2 AM. Anyway, I hope you liked it!


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